27. Present Day – New Year’s Day
27
PRESENT DAY – NEW YEAR’S DAY
SCOTT
‘ N o, ’ I say to Nate with a sigh. I sound like a broken record. ‘No one has any money in January. Everyone is depressed after Christmas.’
‘That’s why we do it.’ His tone exasperated. ‘Give people some fun to look forward to, and it’s for charity.’
‘I’m not convinced.’ Previously, Nate has made some questionable decisions, like the time when he shaved all his hair off, or when he got in a barrel of ice, so I’m not sure what to make of this one. Although, recently, he’s been coming up with some belters — charity events like the pub quiz, and then the New Year’s Eve party.
‘It’s going to help bring customers for other local businesses. They’re feeling it in January as well. It’ll help everyone. What’s the worst that can happen: no one comes to your already-empty pub?’ He opens his hands out, gesturing to said empty pub. ‘Fuck.’
Well, when he puts it like that. Fridays and Saturdays have been okay. I’d been covering costs. Covering them. But The Bull is hardly busy during the week, hardly flush with cash.
‘What would an auction entail?’
‘Well, big brother, I’m pleased you asked.’ He collars me round the neck. ‘You would be standing pretty behind the bar, serving any customers who wanted a drink.’ He gestures from the bar to the far side of the room as he says, ‘Ella and I would be MC-ing the auction.’ He dips his head as he explains, ‘Local businesses would auction their work, or time, or whatever, and the proceeds go to the Blood Bikers.’
‘And the hospital. ITU.’
He grins at me, looking like the kid he used to be. Benefitting charities close to our hearts? Shithead knows he’s got me.
‘For sure. And the local businesses get a little boost in advertising also. Win, win, win.’
His phone rings and he holds a finger up to me.
‘Hey, you.’ He beams down the line. ‘She’s in? Sweet.’ He nods to the caller and then says, ‘Well, that’s very generous. Thank Josie for me.’
My chest tightens on hearing her name. It was fucking torture leaving her this morning.
Nate turns away, and says, ‘Love you.’
When he turns back he has a dopey look on his face.
‘Good news, I take it?’
He spreads his arms like how could I possibly disagree. ‘We’ve already got people signing up.’ I sigh, feeling this might be one of his ideas I regret. ‘And you’ll do all the leg work?’
‘Always do, don’t I?’ He rolls his eyes at me.
I guess he has a point.
‘Okay then.’ It’ll give me something to focus on. Something other than Josie.
I ignore the taunting voice in my head saying, sounds like Josie might be involved.
‘Sweet. I’m gonna head off.’ Nate raises up his helmet. ‘Unless you need help here?’
‘No, man. You’ve got a full-time job. Anyway, Enzo’s in later. I’ll be fine.’
With the New Year’s Day shift over and closing routine done, I head out of the bar, catching sight of a lumpy brown envelope. Jamie had brought it around earlier. What had he said? I found these last week, I think they’re yours. It’s only right that you should have them.
Poor kid begged to keep his job, not realising it was never in danger. I was impressed, actually, that he came in, in person, to apologise — and then gave me the envelope as he left. There’d been a steady trickle of trade today, so I hadn’t had a chance to look.
I open it to find two flash drives. No note.
I lumber up the stairs to my apartment and grab my laptop. Sinking onto the sofa, I fire it up and slot the first drive in.
A list of video files appears, the titles give no clue, only the date and time. Twelve or so years ago. I click on the oldest and a grainy video fills the screen.
My youthful face beams back at the moving lens. It swivels round and my breath catches as Marcus’s face fills the screen. Lit brilliantly white and far too close and blurry.
‘Jacklads, video number six.’ My chest tightens at hearing his voice. ‘Can Scottie become one with a Christmas tree wrapper?’ His breathing echoes loudly, filling my silence as he moves and talks. ‘Let’s find out.’
The camera swivels back and pans out to take in a Christmas tree farm. A silver metal cylinder is pictured front and centre. Next thing I know, I streak into shot and, arms forward, dive into the metal tunnel with a clunk. I slither out the other end, snagged in the plastic tubing which normally surrounds Christmas trees.
‘It’s a Scott’s pine,’ Marcus laughs, making the camera work even shakier. He walks over to where seventeen-year-old me is wriggling, tangled on the ground.
‘Hey!’ a voice yells out of shot. There’s a snigger, frantic movement and the video goes dead.
Staring at the blank screen, I don’t think I’ve blinked. The memory floods back to me —I’d totally forgotten. We got in so much trouble for that prank; I’d got my feet caught up in the net and we couldn’t get away. The owner had ripped us a new one. But Marcus never left me to face the music alone.
Back then, we’d been inspired by other Don’t Try This at Home type TV shows, and used to spend hours plotting ridiculous exploits. Or sometimes we’d film ourselves eating gross stuff, drinking too much, sucking on helium, even eating hash brownies. Fuck, I’d always presumed Marcus had deleted these.
With a torturous pang of excitement, my finger shakes slightly as I press play on the next video — eager to see my friend again but hesitant all the same. I know watching more will only bring the heavy plunge in my stomach that always appears when something about Marcus jogs my memory. I miss my friend and I hate I’m forgetting things.
The camera pans along thirteen baguettes and I instantly remember the time we tried to eat our height in subs. I still can’t touch meatballs.